


sunlight

by bakeoff



Category: Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: F/F, Gen, Gradual Recovery, Hinata Hajime Is A Good Boy Always, Post-Neo World Program (Dangan Ronpa), Referenced past abuse, i love platonic komamiki and also mikan deserves friends, secret santa present, the Imposter uses they/them pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 03:19:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17154299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakeoff/pseuds/bakeoff
Summary: "She looks far brighter than she's ever looked within the simulation, as though she's been polished up and thawed by the sun itself.It's not a look any medicine can achieve, radiance. It must be something to do with love, then."Tsumiki wakes up to blinding light. Among other things, she learns what it means to have friends, and what it might mean to love.





	sunlight

 

Tsumiki opens her eyes and is met with light.

A stark white ceiling returns her dazed gaze.The figure of a boy with mismatched eyes and short, cropped hair stands beside her.

He opens his mouth and says, in a voice too kind to be real, “ _Tsumiki…_ Thank god. It's okay, it’s okay - I've got you now. Let me help you up.”

Tsumiki screams.

 

.

The first few days are hell-  there's hardly a better word to describe them. Her throat is raw from screaming, her stream of apologies to Hinata quiet and pathetic.

He tells her not worry, appears almost distressed in his efforts to silence her, and she knows _she's messed up she's messed it all up again and she's barely just woken up, she wishes she hadn't, wishes he'd leave her alone._

So she bites her cheek to keep from further apologising for being so _useless,_ fists clenched at her sides and lip trembling.

The procedure of learning to live again is hard. Pins and needles prick the bottom of her feet with each step, and the world swims in front of her more and more as she proceeds across her assigned room in the hospital. Hinata is _patient._ He holds her up when she stumbles, tells her it's okay, tells her it'll get better with time, but she looks at him and wants to apologise. Because she's _worthless,_ because somewhere deep within, she doesn't even _want_ to get better at all, even if it means wasting all of his efforts in waking her up. Because sometimes, when she looks at him, and the sunlight showers him through tinted, unclean glass, the lines around his figure seem to blur, and Tsumiki sees someone else entirely.

 

.

 

Sheets are white.

Sheets are white and blankets are a faded shade of baby blue. The ceiling is wooden now, as brown as the supply crates sent by the Future Foundation. The sakuramochi Hinata brought her is a lovely shade of pink, pink like Enoshima Junko’s marvellous hair.

She stares at the food on her plate and pictures hands wrapping around her throat tightly, and then cradling her, and telling her it's okay, it's okay. Even if she's a failure. Even if she's nothing, even if she _deserves_ nothing.

For those hands, she'd do anything. For that solace of acceptance. And why wouldn't _she?_ Does it matter if those wretched others die? What's the use of light in the eyes of someone so cruel, so _unforgiving?_ Why is it wrong to listen to the only person who cares? Those hands know best, after all- they leave her scars, yet they give her what she _needs._ They understand. They punish.

They forgive.

(They're gone.)

Tsumiki remembers Owari’s half hearted smile when she came to visit yesterday. She remembers her staying to talk, carrying the dead weight of a half hearted conversation. She remembers Owari reaching to ruffle her hair at the end, rough hands against a scalp of undelicable, smattered purple. Remembers the sound the door made as it shut behind her, an uncharacteristically gentle thud of wood clipping back into its frame.

And yet, in her lonely silence, Tsumiki also remembers the glare that punctuated Owari’s accusation at the end of Tsumiki’s trial. She can't begin to forget the ugly feelings that blossomed in her chest.

But...No.

_No._

It's wrong. This is wrong, _she's_ wrong, Owari is kind, Owari is a classmate, Enoshima is _gone, she's gone, she's gone._

Tsumiki’s vision blurs. Teardrops soak into her food.

That's all right- she isn't hungry anymore anyway.

.

There are too many memories in her head, like stains that can't be scrubbed away.

Hinata seems to be what's holding them all together these days. He can do _everything_ , it seems, except get rid of the steadily worsening bags under his eyes.

He confirms that yes, she remembers her time within the simulation. Yes, she remembers her time as a despair. Yes, she's coherent, she's lucid, and generally speaking, she's as well as she can be. He listens intently when she tells him she'd like to visit the real Titty Typhoon. He ignores her just as fervently when she asks him when he's last slept.

Nidai comes with when he hears of her plans. He's very good at pretending he's not curious as to why she's come to the very place she took their classmate's life. Mikan isn't as good at pretending she doesn't mind him being there.

She squeaks thank-yous under her breath when he helps haul heavy boxes to the side, stutters half a dozen apologies when she bumps arms with him.

It takes them few hours to organise the place. Boxes neatly sit at either corner. The lights have been scrubbed clean and dusted with her own hands, the stage nearly glowing with cleanliness. She drops the cloth atop it, drawing a shuddering breath. It's _so_ easy. To blink, and to see pools of red instead of polished wood. To mistake her own shadow for that of a familiar silhouette.

“Hey, Tsumiki?”

She feels the sob build up in her throat before she hears it leave her mouth.

“I just. I-I just thought s-s _-she_ might like to find this p-place ready. T-that I could take care of it for her, since I c-can’t trust myself with taking care of _her_ anymore.”

The world is spinning. Stage lights become stools, wires are nooses, the comforting hands on her shoulders are small with sharpened fingers, digging into her skin, manicured in the blood they draw.

Except they're not.

Nidai’s hands are larger and rougher than Enoshima’s ever were. He's saying things in a voice just as rough, leagues deeper than the bubbly tirades and dull monologues drilled into her mind. She can't figure out what he's telling her ( _worthless worthless worthless can't do anything right)_ but she reluctantly lets him draw her close, and his embrace is _so different,_ his scent so foreign from _her_ coppery lilac. Mikan sobs until her eyes are red and her heart stutters. Her shoulders feel heavy with sin. She is so ugly crying like this, so undesirable. No one loves to look at a mess of tears and sniffles, a disaster of inedible shame. No one wants to hold something so wretched.

Nidai doesn't leave.

.

 

Komaeda wakes up next.

Tsumiki’s there when it happens, because she's trying to make herself useful checking on others so Hinata doesn't have to handle it all himself. Kuzuryuu usually takes care of this, but he's busy with Sonia in the kitchens today.

He doesn't scream, but his eyes are glassy when he takes Hinata’s hand. He mumbles something quiet, something that sounds like a thanks but isn't quite that. When he looks at Tsumiki, she looks away.

 _Is it because you have no one to love?_ she remembers herself saying.

She wishes she hadn't come.

.

Koizumi wakes up after. She tries for a smile when Hinata first pulls her up, but it melts into a troubled expression. She cradles the back of her head.

“I’m… sorry. I just think I need a moment or two. It's…”

“It's a lot,” Hinata says, his face breaking into a tired, albeit kind smile. “It's all right. We'll work through it together.” He blinks his mismatched eyes, and Tsumiki tries to picture another man in his place, one with eyes as hollow as the void of space. It's a little harder this time around.

 

.

In some way, it feels good to be back to work again. Work is easy to lose one’s self in, and practicing her talent feels right, the way navigating life without it… doesn't.

Scribbling prescriptions calms her. Organising the medicines in the pharmacy helps, too. Even her stutter hesitates to show itself if she's talking medicines and herbs. Best of all, she feels useful. Like her existence is, for once, something that isn't burdensome. Something that brings forth healing.  
  
Like it was supposed to be. Like it should have always been.  
  
_They've been doing just fine without you. Hinata can do just about anything anyway. He's probably just letting you do this because he feels bad._  
  
And that's true. But even so, Hinata's doing just so much that she's glad she can glad she can relieve him of something. The others are, too. Kuzuryuu and Owari are cleaning up when Kuzuryuu isn't sitting by Pekoyama's pod. The rest of them do him the favour of leaving him unbothered when he gets into those moods, which he does often- Tsumiki dares to wonder what it's like to love someone so much. And to be loved in return, just as fiercely.

(She thinks she might know. But when she considers Kuzuryuu and Pekoyama, it feels wrong to consider all of that ‘love’. When she sits and thinks for a moment longer, she wonders what it feels like to love at all.)

.

Pekoyama wakes up in the middle of the night.

She sits up straight and draws deep breath after deep breath, eyes wide and chest rattling. Tsumiki thinks she might choke on her own breath if she doesn't stop.

Tsumiki snaps back to alertness from her state of half consciousness. She freezes for a moment - hates herself for it - and then her skills kick in.

It's strange, seeing the often calm Pekoyama with frantic darting eyes and trembling limbs.

Tsumiki helps prop her up properly with still arms, an arm looped around Pekoyama's shoulders firmly.

“I-It's all right,” she says, willing herself to be braver for Pekoyama, summoning inner strength she doesn't quite have. The lights flicker- they've been faulty for a while, and the moment of darkness fills Tsumiki with anxiety. But if she’s terrified, she can't imagine how bad it must be for _Pekoyama_ , then.

The lights flicker again.

“It' _s going to be OK!”_

Darkness showers the room. Tsumiki feels nothing but Pekoyama’s trembling body in her embrace and the sleeping _corpses_ of all their classmates and then _nothing at all._

Deep breaths. She can't break down now. She can't, that's useful to _no_ _one._ It's her first night on duty and already she can't do it right; her throat is clogging with tears to come and she's not even sure if this is real if Peko’s real or if _she's_ real and there's someone else hidden in the dark there's someone else whose shadow’s hidden in there and she's scared, she's scared, she's _so useless._

“I-I’m _so sorry.”_

Fluorescent lights shower the room.

There's no one there.

_Selfish. So selfish. Can't do anything right, can you?_

Tsumiki draws in a breath. Kuzuryuu wanted this moment so bad. She's stolen his moment. And even then, she can't do the right thing. She's not brave like Nidai, she's not. She's not competent like Hinata, not calm like Koizumi. 

She's nothing.

Peko’s staring at her. Her mouth his pressed in a line, but her eyes are still wide. She's still alarmed. She's still scared, too.

Tsumiki tries to remember what she'd seen Hinata say.

Trembling hands reach for Pekoyama’s face. Her cheek is cold, and Tsumiki hopes the warmth of her own palm can ease her trembling.

“We'll work through this together,” she says, very quietly. Her voice is not steady like Hinata’s. But she's trying. It's all she can do.

“I-I've got you now. It's safe. You're safe.”

Peko breathes out a shuddering exhale. She makes a move - like she's about to lean into Tsumiki’s warmth, but not _quite._

Peko says, “It appears I've failed.”

.

 

Tsumiki can't sleep that night.

Somewhere on the island, she can almost swear she feels the clamour around Pekoyama. A reasonable sort, of course, with Kuzuryuu at its head. Because he loves her. And Hinata, because he cares, because he's always caring.

Tsumiki organises medicines by their labels in the tiny cabinets of the hospital. There's not a speck of dust to clean away, nothing else for her to do- Nidai’s cleaned the hospital rooms she uses without any prompting, and she wonders if it's because he doesn't want her to have any reason to linger. It must annoy him greatly, her constant useless hovering around a place like this. She hopes he doesn't hate her for it, but she can't help it.

The corridors are long and lonely. Tsumiki navigates them aimlessly, wringing her hands together. Being alone is unnerving, naturally, and her thoughts fill thr empty spaces in her head with anxiety, so sharp she can feel its touch.

Being with others is almost _worse,_ because it confirms those thoughts, birthing them into reality. Maybe she should sleep, then, and simply leave them to it.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Tsumiki’s head snaps upwards. Words catch in her throat. When she sees who it is, her eyes widen.

“K-Komae- I'm sorry, I, I didn't know you were awake, I-” She swallows. “D-do you need anything? I… If you're not feeling well, I can..I can get you some…thing?”

Komaeda stares at her for a long moment, like he's not sure what to say. If she's being honest, his silence terrifies her, if only because out of everyone, she finds him the most unpredictable.

“...I’m okay,” he says, his voice as calm as it is light. “Thank you for your concern, Tsumiki-san.” He gives her what she thinks is an afterthought of a smile, and Tsumiki shrinks into herself.

“You're up late, too,” he adds.

“I -ah, I was, I… I'm sorry,”

Silence punctuates their uninterrupted staring.

“There's nothing to be- ah, it's quite alright.” The smile he gives her is warmer now, but its warmth is painfully insincere. Tsumiki looks away.  

“I apologise for interrupting your stroll. I'll see myself back to my room, then. Really, it's nothing you should concern yourself with.”

He takes a step back towards the room from which he came. Tsumiki catches the way he seems to sway for a moment.

She says, very quietly, “You're not doing well, Komaeda.”

He quirks a pair of pale eyebrows at her, and smiles further still. “It's _very kind of_ you, Tsumi-”

“Let me help you!” The words tumble out of her mouth before she can stop them. Tsumiki covers her mouth.

 

“I- I'm s-” No, no. He's looking paler than usual. His stance is concerning. “Please… I've nothing to do for the rest of the night.”

He stares at her.

_You don't understand?_

She stares back.

_Is it because you don't have anyone to love? Is it because you're also someone who's not accepted by anyone?_

It feels like he may be trying to figure her out. That's fine. She's trying to pin him down, too, even if she can already feel her body prepare for tremors.

_What a pity. I feel sorry for you._

“You _are_ the Ultimate Nurse, after all,” Komaeda relents. “I've no right to deny you.”

“It's not like that,” she says, but she knows it's likely he's already stopped listening.

It smells like chlorine and cleaning detergent. It's an unnerving brand of cleanliness, the one Nidai’s inflicted upon this room. The bedposts have been scrubbed to blinding brightness, the wooden floors dusted and swept with care. Even the window sill has an odd sheen to it. The sheets are fresh and clean, smelling of cheap soap and… was that lavender?

“He came here brimming with hope,” Komaeda tells her when she asks about it. “...and several cleaning materials. I offered to help, of course, but it appears he wished to finish his task alone. Certainly, that's probably for the best- even if cleaning is the only thing I can say I'm good at.”

“H-he’s working hard,” she says, hands busy with pill arrangement. That one for the migraines. And _that_ one to help with sleep. It pleases her that their labels are so neat. She can't hold back a self indulgent smile when they clack together quietly.

Komaeda keeps to himself in the corner of his bed, tucked against it as though repulsed by the idea of coming any closer. She wonders just how much he really hates her.

Tsumiki doesn't think she hates him all that much, and yet she wonders why he's the only one whose gaze she can bear to hold. It makes little sense that volatile, explosive Komaeda with his fluctuation between senseless monologues and the calm of the grabe is the easiest to look at, the most natural to acknowledge. She feels his eyes burn against her skin when she turns her back to him. It makes her feel something akin to vulnerable, but not the pitiable sort of vulnerability she likes to show others in order to be spared their hatred. Somehow, though, it's okay. Because she's watching him, too.

“He’s doing it for you,” Komaeda says.

Tsumiki blinks and drops a bottle. She scrambles to pick it back up. “W-what?”

“Nidai-kun. He said he'd hate for you to have to work too much, and he knows you're not likely to ask for help.” Tsumiki dares to look up at Komaeda’s smiling face. She searches for traces of the lie in the creases of his expression, and feels frustration creep up her chest like a thorned vine when she finds none.

“T-that's not true, is it?”

Komaeda’s wide gray eyes are positively unblinking. He's _strange_. She’s found him scary more times than she can count when they were in the game. Yet here, she can't really bring herself to feel that fear. Not the way she does with others, the way that paints her insides with anxiety and tears at her, merciless.

“Not that I blame you for forgetting,” Komaeda begins to say, very slowly. “but of all people, you should know I'm not much of a liar, Tsumiki-san.”

She doesn’t know what to say. There is silence again, simultaneously and quiet, caring for the unison of their quiet probing at one another.

“R-right. Of course I’m s-sorry. For forgetting.”

Tsumiki thinks of Nidai’s grin. She thinks of the way he held her in Titty Typhoon. Thinks of his (often frightening) outbursts of optimism, his constant manner of seeking her out.

She thinks that maybe he considers her a friend. Tsumiki thinks she likes the idea of being friends with Nidai very, very much.

The sun peaks its tentative head out from beyond the horizon, banishing the darkness ray by ray of gold. When Tsumiki draws the binds of the windows, she finds that her heart is throbbing still. She's not scared- she knows what _that_ feels like.

_Friends._

“Thank you,” Komaeda says, and startles her out of her half trance. He's contemplatively examining a pill in his hand. “for your assistance. It's very kind of you.”

“It's only my job,” Tsumiki says. “I'm glad I can be helpful to you. You're… you're not always in the healthiest  of states, you know. In some ways, you're the perfect patient.”

At this, Komaeda looks at her with wide eyes.

“...Thank you?”

Tsumiki flushes. “N-no, it's not- ah, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, that was s-so rude of me. I just, it's- it's good to take care of people.”

_I like taking care of you, too._

“Ah,” he says. She's not sure he understands. Or maybe he _does._ She can't tell from his face, but he seems like he's content with whatever conclusion he's come to from her words.

They don't speak much after that. Komaeda’s a really good patient, and it's true- he's compliant with her advice, and his motions are far gentler and slower than she's been lead to believe.

He’s not inherently erratic, she realises. He moves and talks in a very subdued manner. Like he's weighing his words and mapping out his actions. He's very careful. He's very delicate.

She's hasn't tended to _this_ Komaeda. And while she doesn't quite feel _safe,_  she, too, feels quiet.

At some point between the coming of dawn and Tsumiki’s frequent peeks outside the window, she finds that he's asleep. Despite herself, she smiles, and is almost immediately overwhelmed with embarrassment, and so she hides it behind the palms of her hands.

Tsumiki thinks she might have done something good today. She thinks maybe a day will come when Komaeda won't hate her, as she's sure he must. And she is  _sure_ it's happiness she feels now, because she's incredibly happy Nidai’s her friend.

 

.

 

Pekoyama looks livelier than ever when Tsumiki sees her next.

A pair of hamsters are nestled in her open palms - Tanaka’s, likely - and her eyes are wide. She is so still that she can easily be mistaken for a statue. Tsumiki is concerned that she might not be breathing.

The hamsters, on the other hand, seem just as concerned for different reasons entirely. It only takes them around ten seconds to decide they strongly dislike their current predicament, and the blink of an eye to flee Pekoyama’s clutches. They disappear around the doorframe, and Tsumiki franctically moves to the side to avoid them.

Pekoyama’s shoulders sag in disappointment. Yet when she looks up to greet Tsumiki, she goes for a smile anyway. It comes out awkward- not in the sense that it's ingenuine, but rather unpracticed. Now that she thinks of it, Tsumiki doesn’t ever remember Pekoyama smiling.

 _She has no reason to smile at_ you.

And that's right.

But she's smiling anyway. Tsumiki likes it, even if it's not very bright, or not quite “correct”, either.

“Tsumiki,” she greets. “Good morning. How can I help you?”

“I, ah- I'm just here to check up on you after physiotherapy,” Tsumiki says. “I'm.. I'm sure you're doing very well. Hinata tells me you've been improving a lot. A-and I've seen you, too, some days ago, walking with Kuzuryuu.”

“Yes,” Pekoyama says, brushing back a strand of loose hair. _It's longer than it looked like it would have been._ “I’ve been doing far better. Young m-" she catches herself, turns red like a bloom kissed by vermilion sunrise, "Fuyuhiko’s been generous with his visits, and Hinata’s influence is remarkable.”

She’s so _radiant._  She's _beautiful_ , rosy cheeks persisting despite her pallor, light locks of hair trespassing past her mid-back. She looks far brighter than she's ever looked within the simulation, as though she's been polished up and thawed by the sun itself.

It's not a look any medicine can achieve, radiance. It must be something to do with love, then.

Because Pekoyama is so, so loved, and Tsumiki’s sure she and Kuzuryuu had a long talk about this. She knows this to be true. She sees that love in her memories, clear as ever, in the shape of the misshapen events of the second trial and Kuzuryuu Fuyuhiko hunched back, eyes unfocused and peering for hours at Pekoyama’s pod.

It's so strange to see the effects of love right before her eyes. The sort of love that puts you together until sunlight is in your eyes and hope is in your heart. Tsumiki thought she didn't know how love worked before, but now she's absolutely sure.

And Tsumiki waits for the inevitable ugliness of envy to overwhelm her. She waits for the pricks of jealousy against her heart, and the guilt to bear after for harbouring such despicable feelings.

None of those come. Tsumiki breathes in a lungful of air. Holds it. She exhales.

She smiles, too.

Tsumiki looks at Peko and takes in her radiance, recalls her attempts to smile, and recalls her tear-smeared face moments before merciless blades and swinging swords sent her to her death. She looks at her, and she sees someone who's learning that she's _loved._

The mocking voices in her head try to steal this away. They tell her,

_You're such a resentful person deep down, aren't you? What's stopping you now?_

Honestly? She doesn't really know.

Even as the vile, horrid creature Tsumiki knows herself to be, she can't bring herself to be upset at Pekoyama for looking like she's getting better.

“I-I-I’m very h-h- _happy_ for you,” she stutters. “It's… you look beautiful, Pekoyama.”

Tsumiki stills, horror pooling at the pit of her stomach. “Oh my g-god, I'm so, so, s-sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-”

But Pekoyama’s eyes are wide, startled. Eyes that are full of life and light. Eyes that someone has missed. The eyes of a _loved_ person, and how could Pekoyama have _ever_ thought herself to be a tool with eyes that can look like that?

Was it because she didn't have that light when she was still trapped in the simulation- because she didn't yet know she was loved? It _must_ be so, it must be. Pekoyama’s so much more than something for someone to use. She's loved _properly._ And all she had to do for it was be herself.

Tsumiki…. She's just mold in the hands of the ones she wants to love her. She buries her face in her hands and says _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,_ because it's not right of her to say so- she doesn't even _understand_ love, so what right has she to say anything of the matter?

Gentle hands touch her shoulder. Tsumiki freezes.

“It's alright,” Pekoyama says in that quiet voice of hers. “...Thank you.”

It takes long for Tsumiki to pry her face from her hands, and longer still for the trail of apologies to wither and die on her parted lips.

Pekoyama’s rosy cheeks have flushed a deeper shade. She looks abashed in a subdued sort of way, like she's not sure how or what to say. And then Pekoyama tries to smile again, and it's all strange and awkward and unsure but it's _there,_ and it's _beautiful._

“I haven't received such kind words before.” Pekoyama pauses, like she's stringing words together. “I'm grateful. Your kindness makes me very happy.”

Tsumiki thinks her heart might just burst.

 

.

 

The imposter wakes up next.

Tsumiki isn't there for it, but she's helping Kuzuryuu with sorting out expired food items at Rocketpunch when Souda slams the door open to deliver the news. Kuzuryuu walks lighter these days, with just as much hope as purpose in his steps. He doesn't spend long hours clutching at the memories of a dead person, and Tsumiki imagines he spends much of that time making new ones with them instead. This is not something that stops him from being characteristically short tempered, however.

By way of greeting, Kuzuryuu (whose face had the misfortune of being in the door's way) says, “ _Hey, what the fuck?!”_

Souda tells them that the imposter is awake. He tells them that they've woken up only minutes prior, and he looks like he's about to say more until he sees the expression on Kuzuryuu’s face and decides that running is a better decision.

“Fucking bastard can't even open doors right,” he murmurs, then softens. “But… another one's awake, huh? That's good. I guess. We'll have everyone awake and conscious in no time.”

He looks at Tsumiki. “Is my face broken?”

“No,” she says. “Y-your face is not broken. I-it's very intact, and while the door’s s-s- _slam_ might have possibly dislodged your nasal cartilage or at least cause a tear in your tissue, it looks like it hasn't.”

“Not broken then. All right. I understood what you said just now, completely and wholly.” Kuzuryuu says, eyebrows quirked. He looks in high spirits for someone whose nose almost got broken. Probably he was contemplating some form of vengeance. “Let's go, Tsumiki.”

 

.

 

Pekoyama can sprint now.

She's started doing physical activities again, often seen swinging her sword out in the open, precise in her mannerism.

It takes some weeks for her impressive arm muscles to show themselves in the face of her training. Tsumiki’s often there to remind her not to push herself.

Pekoyama’s reaction to her concerns goes from sincere-sounding gratitude to smiles. Smiles that are even prettier than before, smiles that are righter than anything else.

Somewhere along the line, it's become routine for Tsumiki to watch her train.

_Slash._

Her sword cuts an elegant arc through the air. Pekoyama’s ponytail swings with her movement. Her chest rises and falls with effort.

_Swish!_

The blade catches sunlight and shimmers like it's silver. The open air sends a breeze in their direction; the flowers around Pekoyama’s feet tilt their little heads as she prepares for her next swing.

Tsumiki watches her from the top of the crate she's sitting in. She catches glimpses of that sunlight her eyes, and when Pekoyama turns to flash her a smile again, she's startled by how _right_ it feels. She's smiled so much that she's relearnt how to. That's it. And now her smile- that beloved smile - is among the best there is.

 _She's beautiful,_ Tsumiki thinks. The beauty of someone loved. That's what it is, isn't it? This is why Pekoyama’s positively captivating.

 

.

 

The imposter sets to work as soon as they can. They insist on being of use to the group, and despite _not_ being Togami Byakuya, they still possess an incredibly kind and selfless demeanour which prompts them to put themselves above all others.

The number of Tsumiki’s shifts by the pods has decreased significantly, and Hinata is practically cornered into practicing self care now that the imposter’s here.

It's so strange, finding kindness at the end of the world.

 

.

 

“W-what did you mean back then?”

“What did I mean…?” Pekoyama hauls the supply crate sent by the future foundation with utter ease. Tsumiki watches the muscles in her arms contract with the effort. She watches for the quiet huff Pekoyama releases through her nose when she finally drops the crate beside the others. There's a clipart strawberry on top of that one, as well as a sticky note that says, “There aren't actually strawberries in this one, sorry! Pretty sure there's like, a 30% chance those are extinct now. - H.Y”

Tsumiki tears her eyes away.

“W-when you said, before ‘It appears I've failed’. What did you mean by that?” she quickly follows up by, “B-but you don't have to tell me! That was really rude of me to ask, wasn't it? I- I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, forget I said anything-”

Pekoyama is looking at her with a patient gaze, the kind Hinata gives all of them when they come to him with an issue. Except Pekoyama’s patience isn't quite like Hinata’s. _He_ ’s learnt to be patient, to bear the responsibility. In game, Tsumiki recalls that he had the liberty to display annoyance and dubiousness. And for that, among other reasons, Tsumiki thinks Hinata’s _amazing_.

Pekoyama’s patience is strikingly characteristic.

...Is it? Since when does Tsumiki know her that well? Since when does she care about knowing people unless it’s to avoid their anger?

 

“I… don't know,” Pekoyama responds. “I was confused. My first thought was that since I was alive, I must have failed to protect Fuyuhiko. Because my last conscious thought was that I was dying. And that since I was dying for him, it was the right way to go. I felt almost at peace with that thought.”

“O-oh,” Tsumiki says. “Oh, I….”

“It's okay,” Pekoyama says. “I couldn't hold that thought for very long before the _other_ half of my memories resurfaced. It was distressing at the time.”

“I’m sorry,” Tsumiki says again. She dares to hold her gaze this time, and she _means it._ “You were already going through a lot, and I-I couldn't care for you properly, even when it was my job.”

It's scary. Meeting people's eyes like you're their equal, daring to pretend like your presence is worth something in comparison to theirs.

Pekoyama shakes her head. A strand of silver hair swing in front of her eyes, but she doesn't brush it away.

“You made me feel warm.  Your hand, right here-” Pekoyama brought her hand up to her cheek, and cradled it with a foreign sort of gentleness that didn't quite belong on her. _Is that really how Tsumiki looked like?_

“It was warm. It was unfamiliar, but it was enough for the moment.”

Tsumiki feels her heart stutter. Her cheeks have turned incomprehensibly warm.

“I...I don't….”

Pekoyama’s lips quirk upwards in a different, lopsided sort of smile Tsumiki’s never seen before.

She's still glowing with the radiance of one loved and thoroughly deserving of it, but there's something else that adds to the beauty of who she is. Something in her patient stance and her diligence, something in her constant attempt to remember how to smile, something in the very smiles she so kindly threw Tsumiki’s way without any prompting.

It's a strange thing, discovering what _might_ be love at the end of the world.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

**Author's Note:**

> im phil, sixteen, and i never learnt how to write tsumiki apparently but i love her very very much and she deserves happiness. also i really love komaeda and mikan so naturally i had to have them interact.
> 
> this was a gift for my good friend miro, who asked for pekomiki. merry crisis, miro <3 love ya.


End file.
